The sign of one
by Zeddy8
Summary: Continuing this fic (thanks to Anagogia for encouraging me to) about what happened to Sherlock after he left the wedding. Spoilers for s3e2 in it. Sherlock realizes just how alone he really is and tries to deal with the overwhelming emotions. Rated T just in case.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had actually been looking forward to his dance with the bridesmaid, but when the music started and he looked around for her, only to find her already dancing with someone. He gave her a halfhearted smile, and although he did care, he didn't let it show. His eyes wandered to Molly, hoping for a dance, but she; also, was busy, dancing with that fiance if hers, Tim? No, Tom.

He straightened his back and hid his feelings of disappointment behind his emotionless mask. Sentiment never seemed to work well, but Sherlock knew sentiment wasn't the problem, but he was. Expressing it just didn't work for him like it did for regular people.

Seeing as how no one could dance, and that's all anyone was doing, Sherlock knew no one would notice, or if they did they wouldn't care, if he left so he departed the wedding.

Leaving early made him think of what Mrs Hudson had said, and he knew it was true, weddings changed people, and with a baby on the way, Sherlock knew that no matter what John would say, he was a third wheel. The crime solving and the relationship they had developed would never be nearly as strong. No more John to entertain him in 221b, no John to be there for him.

He knew he should have seen it coming, leaving for two years, he never really expected John to move on, though. But now he had, and this was why he hadnt made friends before. Sherlock Holmes wasn't to have friends. Friends just never worked for Sherlock Holmes.

John was wrong, alone protected him. Alone was all he had left as he walked out into the ice cold air.

He felt a buzz in his left pocket and pulled out his phone to find a text message which he then proceeded to read.

How is the wedding, brother dear?

MH

Sherlock sighed and texted back;

Just fine.

SH

Then he put his phone back in his pocket and made his way back to 221b, he walked in and eyed the chair, johns chair, the chair that would be empty much to often.

He lay down on the couch and steepled his hands under his chin as he tried to distract himself from sentiment by thinking of a case that he knew Lestrade would calk about soon. He had seen it in the newspapers, and after hacking into New Scotland Yards computers he got all the info he needed.

Yet he couldn't focus on the case, as try as he might, he felt horribly alone, when he got another text.

They're all goldfish, brother dear, don't take it personally.

MH

Sherlock read the text and shook his head, "Not John." He whispered, "Not John."

He didn't change out of his suit when he fell asleep, and he only awoke from the sound of the door opening. His eyes flew open in an irrational hope that his blogger had shown up. That his John had returned.

His scoffed in displeasure and shut his eyes again when he saw who his visitor was.

Mycroft gingerly sat himself down in Johns chair and looked expectantly as Sherlock.

When Sherlock didn't say anything, Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke; "Sherlock, you didn't answer my text messages."

"That's very nice."

"Sherlock." Mycroft said with an authorative tone.

Sherlock open his eyes and promptly rolled them, "Am I now not allowed to sleep?"

"You didn't answer my texts, and I thought you might be doing something stupid." Mycroft explained gingerly.

Sherlock spread his legs and rolled himself up so he was sitting up with his knees tucked against his torso, his arms enwrapped his langky legs and his chin rested on his knees. "You don't need to worry, Mycroft." He said in an exasperated to be, "I'm perfectly fine." He smiled falsley and leapt to his feet, "in fact, I'm absolutly fine. Care for a cuppa?" He ruffled his hair to slightly dispell the bedhead look that had taken his hair.

Mycroft shook his head and rose to his feet to casually stroll into the kitchen.

Sherlock was frantically making two cuppa teas. As he made it, he had to dodge several test tubes of murky looking liquids, and his ever present microscope.

"Sherlock. I know what is wrong, and I want to help you." Mycroft insisted, his chin slightly raised as usual.

"I don't need help, Mycroft. I am fine." Sherlock insisted once again, as he handed Mycroft his tea.

Mycroft put the tea down on the counter and shook his head, "if you insist, brother dear, but I'm only a phone call away."

"A phone call I will not be making." Sherlock spat out before he stalked into his room where he changed into his pajamas and night gown. He didn't plan on sleeping again, once he was awake, he was awake. But he stayed stubbornly in his room until he heard the front door close. That's when he left his room and looking at his phone saw he did in fact have several messages from Mycroft the final one reading;

I'm coming over.

MH

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, he looked at the time to see it was only just midnight. He didn't think Mrs Hudson was home, and so he solemnly picked up his violin and began a slow, sad song. Just as the song reached a climatic bar that truly sounded just as Sherlock felt, he heard the front door close and he abrutly tossed down his violin and threw himself down on the couch as if he were sleeping. He heard Mrs Hudson come up into his flat and give a sweet sigh before she disappeared into her own room.

Sherlock sat on his couch, his fingers steepled in front if his face for the remainder of the night.

The next morning Sherlock shot Lestrade a text telling him that it was the housekeepers granddaughter, assuming the detective inspector would understand, before he got up, pulled his coat on, tied his blue scarf around his neck and went for a long walk outside.

He didn't mind that the sun was hardly up, nor that the air was bitterly chilly as he strolled along the London streets, his nose turning pink from the cold.

As he walked he thought about how often he might be having these walks now. With no John to keep him company he didn't know what he would do.

He wondered what John would fill his blog with now, probably just rambles about Mary. He felt a pang in his chest.

As insolent as the yard was, they still did solve some cases, and he only got called on the ones they couldn't solve, so that wouldn't keep him from getting bored.

He thought about calling Molly but decided it was still early and after a long night, he didn't want to wake her. But he still felt like he needed to talk to someone.

As he sat down on a bench in a small park he let a single tear roll off his prominent cheek bones before he composed himself once again.

Molly had Tom, she didn't need him. John had Mary, he didn't need the world's only consulting detective any longer.

Sherlock Holmes was once more, alone. With no one but himself.

Alone protects me.

No. Friends protect me.

Friends used to protect me.

All that's left for protection is me. Is alone.


	2. Chapter 2

A/n Well here's a part two that will definitely lead to another! Mild references to drinking and an itsy bitsy reference to drugs (really really tiny though!)

He didn't know how long he sat on the bench, but he was trudging through his mind palace when he was rudely interrupted by a frisbee hitting his square in the face.

He let out a startled gasp and scanned the area for whoever dared to hit him with the offensive object he now held in his hand.

"Sorry! Can I have that back please." Sherlock heard a small boy ask. He was standing in front of the detective and he held his hands behind his back sweetly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed the frisbee to the ground, slumping back down onto his bench.

The boy picked up the frisbee, but didn't leave, instead the boy tilted his head to the left and watched this strange man.

Sherlock ignored the boys presence and once again steepled his fingers below his chin, trying to get back into his mind palace to distract himself.

"What are you doing?" the boy asked abruptly as he sat down with his legs crossed and his frisbee on the ground in front if him.

Sherlock grit his teeth and snapped his eyes open. "I am trying to think. So if you could leave me-"

The detective was interrupted by this boy who only getting more and more curious about this absurd adult.

"What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock sighed and shrugged his shoulders, "Seems like my business more than yours."

"Your face got in the way of my frisbee, I think I should getta know what you were thinking." the boy argued confidently, narrowing his green eyes in a challenge.

Sherlock scoffed and shook head before saying, "You're an only child and you don't have many, if any friends, however that is by your own free will, why, I don't know. You're playing frisbee alone, and will talk to anyone who's old enough to not be stupid like-ah that's why you don't have friends, you feel like you're above the rest of them, typical. Your parents are divorced and your Mum, who are staying with right now, does not usually have you, as most of your belongings are at your Dads house." Sherlock rambled off, with hope to make the kid leave, even if he was crying.

The boy stared at Sherlock with a small smile as he shook his head. "Nope!" he said, popping the 'p'.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at the child with a challenging expression. "I have a brother, and I'm with my Dad. So hah! Not smart now are you." the boy raised up his chin defiantly.

"Not so smart! Why don't you try. Tell me about myself if you're so much better." Sherlock challenged, straightening his posture so he was looking down his nose at the boy.

The boy blushed and looked down at the ground. "I didn't say I was any better than you, I was just saying you weren't that fantastic. But I can tell you're very upset about something right now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he inhaled a sharp breath. "I am not upset about anything, now if you would stop pestering me-"

"Why? So you can keep pretending to think? No one can just think for an hour! I've been watching you, and you must have been sleeping."

"I've been in my mind palace, and would like to return, if insolent boys weren't interrupting me!" Sherlock argued.

"William."

"What?"

"My name is William, not insolent little boys." William smirked smugly as he stretched his feet out in front of him in that way that only children can.

Sherlock shrugged and lay back against the back of the bench, closing his eyes and steeling his hands.

He counted to 480 belford cracking open one eye, he gave a sigh of relief to see that the boy had wandered off once again. However he also noticed that it had gotten significantly darker. He tilted his head up towards the sky and saw that the sky was darkened by black clouds, and he knew rain would be coming any minute now.

He mentally calculated how long it would take to walk back to baker street, and after getting a 30 minute calculation he ran towards the road to hail a taxi. Despite his running luck on hailing a taxi cab, he couldn't seem to get one this time. And when the rain started to trickle down on the detective, he turned up his collar against the rain and bit of wind that had started blowing against his back.

And turning your coat collar so you look cool.

Sherlock frowned and slumped his shoulders, wondering if John would have mentioned his collar had he been with him.

Giving up on the taxi, Sherlock started walking absent mindly towards baker street, knowing full well he would be thoroughly wet by the time he got to the flat.

He wasn't sure he could ever call it home again, now that John were gone.

He flung the door to the flat open and with a roll of his shoulders sent his coat on the ground. He was much to distracted to bother hanging it up. His thoughts were flying through his head at a painful speed. Every possibility on what to do was slamming against his brain like bullets.

"John, where's the parcetemol?!" he yelled out as flung himself onto the couch with his eyes clenched shut. The silence that returned his call only made more pain in his head.

He forced his eyes open and stumbled across the room into the kitchen. He opened the cupboard wildly and scanned the shelves for some form of painkiller. Hs eyes fell on the parcetemol bottle and with a sigh of relief he snatched the bottle and dumped its entire contents onto the counter. Well he would have, had the bottle not been empty.

In anger the detective launched the empty bottle against the wall and slumped down onto the ground. It had been awhile since this last happened. Since he couldn't control how fast his mind worked, and last time it had been while he was away. When he was particularly missing John. Why was it always John being gone? That thought threw itself repeatedly into his mind and as he struggled to answer the endless questions logic failed him. He needed to slow down.

Drugs? He didn't know where to find them quick enough.

No body in a three mile radius would sell him a nicotine patch RO cigarette.

Holding his head in his hands he got back to his feet. He didn't keep alchohal in the flat, but there was no shortage of pubs around here. He shuddered at the thought of going to a pub, the last time he went was not at all pleasant (he didn't count Johns stag party, as that wasn't specifically one pub) And he only felt more dizzy and overwhelmed as the scenario replayed itself in his head.

It was awhile ago. Before he had 'died'. Lestrade was celebrating his birthday, which birthday, Sherlock didn't bother to remember. Everyone from the yard was invited, and so was John. When John came home to the flat, he had spent hours trying to persuade Sherlock to come. He had even offered to play cluedo. Sherlock had known he wasn't actually invited and only agreed after Lestarde texted him and actually invited him; although he was sure John had told him to.

This was the first, and afterwards decided the last, time he had ever been to a pub.

It was fine at first, and despite the large number of stupid people present, it was almost enjoyable. Until about an hour in. For an hour the yarders (primarily Lestrade and Anderson) were trying to get him to drink, but he had flat out refused. However, he didn't notice that someone (he's pegged Anderson) been spiking his Pepsi until he was to drunk to care. He couldn't walk straight and his speech was slurred.

When he woke up the next morning, the only thing to remind him of the night before was the video Lestrade had texted him. And everyone else in his contacts.

Sherlock didn't even bother with a coat, more he didn't remember. Everything was spinning around him and coming outside didn't help.

Having an affair with his secretary, who is in turn having an affair with his wife. Only child. Works as a manager for some large company.

He couldn't stop the deductions that spun through his head. He squatted down on the wet concrete holding his head, trying to aces his mind palace, every bomb had an off switch. But every thought was fire burning the entry, refusing him entry. He let out a frustrated cry, and the people who stopped momentarily to watch him, only added to his thoughts, these painfully easy people just begging for him to deduce them as they stopped just long enough for him to do so.

With his eyes hardly open and his steps pained, Sherlock somehow found himself in a pub. He didn't remember much, except the beautiful burning sensation as he numbed himself with scotch. The wonderful feeling of not feeling as he got to drunk to think anymore. The pain seemed to leave, his head spun faster, but for better reasons. He even got into a conversation with some guy who bought them a round of shots as Sherlock spilled all his worries and pains to this stranger.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n Thanks to everyone for reading!**

**Thanks also to Anagogia for reviewing and encouraging me to continue this! And yes, you were right, the stranger does play a part!**

**Thanks to the lovely guest who reviewed!**

**And thanks to infinitesparkle for also reviewing! I'm very glad I made you grin ;)**

His eyes opened to darkness, pain, and deep regret.

His head ached and he could feel the stomach ache that threatened to make him hurl. He felt horribly guilty for giving in, but he also knew he couldn't have done anything else.

Despite the darkness, he analyzed where he was going off of his other senses. Despite being hung over it hardly took him any time to realize he was in his room, in his own bed.

It wasn't until he tried to stand up that the need to vomit was too much and he rushed blindly to the bathroom, letting out the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

After cleaning himself up, showering, and making himself a cuppa tea, Sherlock sat down and did his best to remember what had happened the night before.

He knew he had drunk, too much, he admitted to himself guiltily.

But otherwise he was at a loss. That was what bothered him most, he didn't know, and it made him more than angry.

After finishing his tea and lingering on the task of trying to remember anything past entering the bar, the detective could feel the horrid torture of boredom settling in on him. He needed something to do!

Even after checking John's blog, he couldn't find a single case. Where were all of the psychotic serial killers, or even another glowing rabbit? He checked his texts from Lestrade in hopes of missing one.

He considered texting John, but after changing his mind several times, decided against it. It had been the mans wedding only two days before. And the next morning he'd be leaving for his sex holiday anyways, so he was probably busy packing.

"And of course you brought your gun when you moved out!" Sherlock growled out loud in frustration.

With nothing else to do, he decided to just go to the supermarket to get milk. After all, he had used the last of it for his tea that morning, and it would be ridiculous to text John asking for him to pick it up (although the thought had indeed crossed his mind.)

He tightened his scarf and slung-on his coat before walking through the front door as if he wasn't feeling worse than ever inside his head.

To any onlooker, the detective would look as cocky and arrogant as ever. He wouldn't look as though the simple act of having to buy milk was causing more emotional pain than the detective had ever felt.

Going to get milk only rubbed salt in the wound, and although Sherlock would never admit it, he cared about the lack of companionship more than any real sociopath would.

Having not gone shopping in a very long time, Sherlock trusted the cabbie to get him where he wanted when he simply requested to be taken to 'The nearest supermarket that sells milk.'

He paid the cabbie and glared openly at the store. Oh he hated stores. They were always busy, full of annoying people, and he had heard from John that the chip and pin machines were absolutely evil.

After scowling at a lady who bumped into him, clearly an only child holding up three relationships in a desperate attempt to subconsciously replace her lack of proper childhood with many romantic relationships, Sherlock made the brave decision to enter the store.

It took him a full ten minutes of arguing with the store manager to decide what kind of milk to buy.

"I promise you sir, all of our milk is fresh and safe to drink!"

"But you're lying! I know you are, because it can't all be fresh if some of it is 1 percent and the 2! How about the skim milk? If the 1 percent has even a bit of H2o concentration, then the skim milk must be mostly water, and the water, I guarantee you, is not fresh! It was probably sitting in some vat or bottle for at least a week!" Sherlock argued, his eyes narrowed as he gestured wildly at the milk. This was frustrating him beyond belief. The stupid manager just couldn't tell him what kind of milk tasted best in tea, was the freshest, and lasted the longest?

The young manager shifted from foot to foot nervously, "Well, i suppose, sir, that's true, but the milk itself is fresh…"

"Well it better be fresh! Now who wont you just tell me what kind of milk is the best!"

"It all depends on personal preferance-"

"Never mind, shut up and go home now. I'm reporting your incompitance to your boss and getting you fired. You never deserved the job anyways, you only got it because you dated his daughter, not to mention you don't want it, you just want to please your father. So by ensuring you are fired, I'm only doing you a favour, you can finally break up the bosses daughter and instead focus on your other girlfriend, no boyfriend! Ah, I see why else you dated the daughter now, very clever, but much too obvious."

The manager's eyes were wide and his mouth hanging open. It seemed like the poor boy might cry! "I-I, very sorry sir, 1 percent is the best." He mumbled before running around into the other aisle with his head down in shame.

"Thank you." Sherlock snapped as he roughly yanked the jug of milk out of the refrigerator. Stupid employees, the young idiot couldn't have just told him 1 percent was the best in the first place?

"I like 2 percent milk better." A familiar voice behind the detective said. Sherlock cringed and turned around.

"William." He said disdainfully, "What a pleasure." His face, however, was not one of pleasure.

"Y'know, he lied to you so you'd leave him alone. No kinda milk is any better than the other, not until you try them all and decide which you like better." William said with a mischievous smile.

Sherlock looked down at the jug then after a moments hesitation broke the seal on it and took a deep gulp right from the bottle. He wanted to make sure he was buying the same kind of milk John did.

William covered his mouth with one hand to hide his giggles as the detective made a sour face and replaced the lid before gently putting the jug back on the shelf. "Try the skim milk, some people like it better."

Sherlock nodded and this time without hesitating he he opened the jug of skim milk and took a drink, this time he spit the mouthful of milk back into the jugand with a scowl screwed the lid on andput it back on the shelf. He glared openly at William who was biting his lip with amusement.

"Are you trying to poison me? That was- that was terrible." Sherlock sputtered.

"You could try 2 percent?" William offered innocently.

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head before saying; "I changed my mind, I prefer my tea black as of now. I'm not even going to bother buying anything, this store is absolutely stupid. Idiot managers and spoiled milk. Not to mention they allow ignorant and annoying little boys who can't mind their own business." He said the last part with a pointed look at William.

Before William could reply with a snarky comment, he saw some mother with a stroller and two more kids looking for milk. He jerked his head at them, trying to tell Sherlock to turn around and look at them.

Sherlock got the message and turned around to watch with surprise as the poor mother grabbed the jug of skim milk he had spat in. After she left a look of horror consumed his face.

"Aww, don't feel bad."

"Feel bad? I'm just appalled that the evil woman would make her children drink that poison!" Sherlock exclaimed with exasperation.

As Sherlock waited for the taxi cab he was thinking about the boy he had met twice now. William didn't seem to be nearly as terrible as Sherlock had expected. Of all ten year olds he had met, William had to have been the most interesting. He had to go after the boys dad had texted him asking when he'd be back.

Instead of a cab showing up, however, a black car pulled up beside him. With an over-dramatic eye roll, the detective pulled open the door and slid into the back seat. "What does Mycroft want now?" He asked the driver, who he expected to be his brothers personal assistant, Anthea or whatever it was. Instead he saw the back of none other than his brother himself's head.

"_Mycroft_ would like to grab a coffee with you." His brother answered evenly. "You know, brother, you're usually not so eager to get in my cars." It was statement, not a question.

Sherlock sighed, "Well no use trying to ignore you driving beside me."

"No, brother dear, but you still feel the need to make everything difficult, under normal circumstances." Mycroft argued emotionlessly, his eyes not leaving the road.

Sherlock locked his jaw and clenched his fists before answering. "Circumstances are normal, _brother dear_." He practically snarled the last part.

Mycroft didn't respond, but instead let his brother calm down before they arrived at the coffee shop. When they finally did arrive, and Mycroft left the vehicle he noticed with annoyance his brother was making no move at all to get out.

"Sherlock! Grow up and get out." Mycroft ordered when he opened the back door.

Sherlock studied his brother for several moments before crossing his arms across his chest and asking, "Why would you take me out to coffee? What's the point? Awfully sentimental, don't you think?" He raised an eyebrow sarcastically.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in frustration, "Oh please, Sherlock, allow me to explain after we have our coffee and are seated?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but did get out of the car, making a point to slamming the car door, causing Mycroft to flinch.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/n!**

**Han Alister: You don't have to wait long ;)**

**Infinitesparkle: Glad you enjoyed the milk part! I wanted something funny to lighten the mood before the depressing stuff coming up.**

**Er, so there are mentions of suicide and self harm in here. Nothing graphic, and nothing happens, but Sherlock's not very happy right now… So… yeah...**

"Stop acting like two year old!" Mycroft hissed in his brothers ear as Sherlock whined about the potent level of sugar in his coffee.

"I'm very sorry, sir, I'll get you a new one pronto." The employee mumbled before brewing a third coffee for the customer. First it was not enough sugar, now too much. Making a wild guess the worker put in a half a teaspoon of sugar and handed it warily to the curly haired bloke.

Sherlock regarded the coffee for a few long moments before sniffing it and nodding. He walked stiffly to a seat and sat down in one chair, watching Mycroft as he sat across from him.

"Are you trying to be difficult, today, Sherlock? It's frankly embarrassing." Mycroft scolded before sipping at his coffee.

Sherlock didn't answer the question, mentally labeling it to be rhetorical. "Two visits in one week, what have I done to earn the pleasure?" As he asked the question he wore his 'deducing the crap out of you' expression, trying to find the answer before Mycroft revealed it. Unfortunately, Mycroft had gotten exceptionally skilled at hiding his emotions.

But his tie was crooked and said he had left quickly. He also had minor bags under eyes, showing he didn't get his regular amount of sleep the night before, unfortunately, neither of these factors would be very unusual.

"Haven't figured it out yet? I've heard all about your outing last night." Mycroft stayed emotionless as he spoke, and his face didn't change except for the one eyebrow that shot up his forehead.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, he hadn't meant for Mycroft to know, yet his brother always seemed to know. "Yes."

"Yes? That's not even a proper answer. Now stop fooling around, I know everything already." Mycroft said seriously, lowering both of his eyebrows and tilting his head downwards.

Sherlock glanced around at the other occupants of the room, but found no one paying attention to the Holmes boys.

The detective leaned forward so his face wasn't far from his brothers.

"You know nothing about me."

Mycroft let a small smile of triumph onto his face, "Really? So I don't know that you are _'missing John, I don't think he really remembers me, y'know?_' I don't know _'Mrs Hudson said when her friend left the wedding early, they never really talked again? I did leave early, what if John is angry?_' and I don't know that, '_I feel horrible, lonely, y'know? I like having John around, he's not an idiot, I need him._' I don't know-" Mycrofts speech was interrupted by the screeching of a chair, and a coffee spilling over.

Mycroft made eye contact with his brother and although he would never let it show, he hated how sad his brother looked, and he felt guilty for being so frank with his brothers own drunken feelings. The detectives eyes were rimmed with red, and his entire face was sunken, his chin quivering. His jaw was clenched, and both anger and pain burned in his sunken eyes.

"I don't know how the hell you can see in my head. But I'm done." He spun on his heels and stalked out of the cafe.

Sherlock didn't know how Mycroft knew this. But everything Mycroft said, sounded exactly how he would have worded it. It was like Mycroft had literally read his mind, and hearing him say it was painful.

Everything his brother said had said felt like a red hot knife into his heart. And he did have one, despite common rumours.

And he was done. Not just with his brother, but with everything. He wasn't used to feeling like this, and it made him want to jump off a building, for real this time.

He had seen a picture in the newspaper of his 'dead' body on the pavement. It had been a different corpse with a facemask on it, but the thought of that body really being him was becoming increasingly appealing.

Hi thoughts lingered on the blissful thought of it just being over. No one would care, John would be fine, he had Mary. He could almost feel the peacefulness as he pictured himself dead on the ground. Finally he could sleep, really sleep, finally just get a break.

Almost feel it, he was so close, but there was that one tedious barrier. Life, what was the point anyways? Being gone would be so much more peaceful, so much easier. He'd never have to worry about anything. He would be, for the first time in a long time, happy.

But suicide would be so… normal. So boring. He knew he didn't deserve anything so easy. Perhaps he could make a stupid move on a dangerous case and get himself shot? He wasn't afraid of pain before dying, in fact the thought was almost calming. It'd be nice to know he was dying, instead of just being dead.

_Do you really want to wait that long?_

Sherlock walked right past his front door as he asked himself that question.

_Can you wait that long?_

"No." He mumbled to himself as he felt himself quaking. Everything he was ever sure of was crumbling down.

He was sure he had a friend, maybe even a few, if you counted Molly and Lestrade.

Now he doubted it. Who would befriend a freakish sociopath? He wasn't meant to have friends, and he knew it.

He was sure he didn't have the chemical defect of caring, but now he could feel he was wrong about that too.

Was there ever anything he was right about? It didn't seem so.

His whole frame trembling with the effort of keeping himself together as his knees collapsed and he leaned back against a building, his head in hands.

Done.

He didn't care anymore.

It was too much. He had known better, the day he met John, he knew he shouldn't get himself into something dangerous like that. He knew he shouldn't have sought out companionship. But he did. And now he knew Mycroft was right.

Caring

Is

A

Disadvantage.

He didn't sleep.

He didn't think.

He didn't move.

Not until darkness had swamped his curled body. When he did lift his head he could hardly see around him. He still didn't want to move.

The air was cold around him. His coat and mobile were both still at the coffee shop.

Good. He didn't want anyone to call him. He didn't ever want to see another being again. He just wanted to get swallowed up by the concrete he sat on.

_I just want to die._

Why was it so hard?

In frustration the detective threw his head backwards against the brick wall behind, relishing in the ringing that haunted his head. The sharp pain from the wall behind him was welcomed with open arms.

Why did it feel so good? Why was the pain all that comforted him?

Why did he have so many questions.

_Why?_

_Why?_

"_WHY_?" He audibly let this question leave his mouth. It hurt so much. All of him hurt. Not pysical pain. That pain felt nice. That pain was distracting.

No, the problem was the other pain.

The problem was the pain that made him want to die.

The pain that ate him up from the inside.

The pain that overwhelmed him.

The pain that needed to go.

_I'm done._

He used the wall to help himself to his feet.

Now that evil voice ate at him. That voice he hadn't heard from since university.

That was the voice that hated him.

That was the voice that always won the fights.

That voice was his own.

_You deserve this. After what you did to John, you can't expect to keep his friendship._

_You are a freak. You are not normal._

_You are a horrible person._

He used to fight it. He used to tell himself it was wrong. Now he didn't bother. He knew it was true.

He agreed with it. With himself.

He didn't want to fight anymore.

He didn't want anything anymore.

John would be asleep now. Ready to go away on his honeymoon. John was fine without him.

Mrs Hudson would have left by now. Her sister was sick.

He briefly considered texting Lestrade.

_Why would he want to talk to a freak like you? He's never liked you. None of them did. They just felt bad for you, so they pretended they did._

_But now they don't need to pretend anymore. No one does. Because you're going to die, right?_

He opened his mouth. He considered denying it, but did't. He did want to die. He wanted peace. He wanted to be truly alone.

_Alone protects you._

_Death will protect you._

"Yes. It does. I want to die." The words verbally confirmed all his past thoughts. Everything. It wasn't that voice in his head.

No.

It was him.

He wanted to die.

_I'm done._

"No more." He whispered to himself. His red rimmed eyes filled with tears, but they didn't fall.

But he fell. Facefirst onto the concrete. He was too weak to walk. His joints shaking. All of him shaking. The warm blood that flowed easily from his nose was comforting. It was calming.

It was good.

It was good. So he rolled away from it. Knowing he didn't deserve it.

_You don't deserve death. You deserve to suffer._

"I know." The defeated voice was so obviously sad, that no one could miss. But there was no one near him as he drifted into a dazed haze.

No sleep.

No relief from the pain.

No comfort.

Just pure defeat.

Defeat is what Sherlock felt as he lay in wait. Waiting for nothing. Just waiting for death. He didn't want to wait. But he couldn't do otherwise. He didn't deserve otherwise. He was a terrible person who deserved nothing but what he was getting.

_Maybe if you weren't such a freak, you'd have friends. No, you'd still be a terrible person. But maybe you'd let yourself die quickly. But you are a freak. You don't deserve it._

He succumbed to the voice in his head. It started with only his own voice. But now he could hear everyone else's voice.

He could hear Mycrofts voice. The disappointment.

His aunts voice as she told him it was his fault his parents were dead. He knew it was. He convinced them to go out that night. He insisted.

He heard all of his classmates, one after another. Every word they said.

Donavan, she had always been right.

Then it got worse. He could see the angry, disappointed faces.

John.

Lestrade.

Even Molly.

They all hated him, and he was seeing it in his head. He was hearing it all around him.

It was proof. And there was no one to tell him otherwise.

No one at all.

Just his memories, his pain.

And worst of all himself. He was being tortured by himself. Himself telling him how useless and pathetic he was. He inhuman he was. What a machine he was.

_You are a machine._

_I'm not-_

_Yes you are._

_But-_

_You are. You always have been. You are nothing. You should be dead._

_Yes._

_Good._


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello again, everyone! So I hate to burden you with excuses on why this update took so long, but they are at least reasonable! Most of my writing time has been consumed by my not-fanfiction novel that I'm hoping to start editing soon. Any other time has been really busy, between school and Cadet's, I'm pretty busy. _

_Also, I always listen to music while I write, and this particular chapter was written to 'Human' by Christina Perry, if you're interested in listening to something while you read this. Also, a quick question for you guys. I know that Mycroft is one of my favourite characters, and I love his relationship with Sherlock. But some people don't much like him. I have plans for future chapters, and just want to know if you don't mind Mycrofts involvement, or if you'd rather a different character? (No John, I've plans for him already ;))_

_ Hans Alister: Thanks, and I'm glad you liked it! So sorry it took so long for this chapter ): _

_Anonymous: I'm also hoping to finish it, how long it will be till then, I don't know, but I always feel really bad leaving any kind of story unfinished._

_ paula. : Thank for reviewing and I hope you're enjoying this, despite the angsty feels! _

_Anagogia: Thank you so much for your review! I really appreciate the criticism. If I had seen that earlier, I probably would have worked on this sooner . I think I need to find a way to get email alerts from . It's true that what went on the last chapter wasn't all from his current predicament. Sherlock has been holding in all his bad feelings for years, and now while he was particularly hungover and set off by Mycroft, he wanted to let it all out. Rather like an emotional splurge, if that makes sense? Again, thank you so much for your continued support through this story, and for the amazing review. Your last one seriously made my day (and in ways, this chapter!) _

_Anyone know how to make the page break type line things? Instead of using various dashes and symbols and stuff? _

He hadn't even noticed he'd fallen asleep, but when he woke up, he cursed and ran a hand through his curls. Looking at his watch, he noticed it was only a couple of hours later. Not even dinner time yet. Despite the time, he was still tired and he bore a nasty headache. Swearing to never drink alcohol again, he pulled himself to his feet. He still felt everything weighing against his chest, and had an inexplicable urge to do _something_ to get rid of the feelings.

He really didn't like feeling this way, and it wasn't the first time, but he was still angry at himself. He was angry at Mycroft. And he was angry at sentiment more than anything. Why was a chemical defect ruling out logic in his head?

Logic and sentiment were having an argument in his head, and due to circumstances, sentiment was winning by a landslide.

His posture slumped, his eyes rimmed, and his heart heavy, he started to wander back to the general direction of his flat. He was tired, but he wouldn't sleep. He was hungry, but he wouldn't eat. He didn't feel like it.

He hated when this happened. When _emotions_ leaked into his life, past his barriers. He had spent so long building his barriers, but for years now they had been breaking down. Withering away, until now they finally broke.

He hated this feeling. This _vulnerability_, the weakness, and the pain. He hated it all. How did other people do this so often? Perhaps after long enough, normal people desensitized to it? Well if there was one thing Sherlock knew for sure, it was that all of this was unwanted and raw.

As he slugged along the side of the sidewalk, practically hugging buildings, he wallowed in his pit of anger. Only now he was primarily angry at himself. Angry for letting it all go, for letting his emotions show. It was true, he had a heart. It was true, he wasn't a machine. And that is why he was so angry. Because it was all true, he was human, and it angered him. He had always thought of himself above that, better than sentiment and things such as it. But every now and then, his walls would break. It would come out at once, and until he managed to rebuild his cold facade, it would ache at him.

He tried to think back to when it would have started, the crumbling of his walls that had stayed put for several years. Even through his drug relapse a couple of years ago he had known his emotional walls were as put as ever. He decided it must have been when he met John, that was what tipped him off the edge hours ago, so surely it was what had been the first strike to start the decrepitation. The irony of it, was that the one thing Sherlock wanted at that moment was for the one breaking his walls to come back to him.

He had been so closed, and although he didn't admit it to himself, he had been alone. The loneliness hadn't bothered him before, he hadn't really known differently. But now, now he knew what he had been missing out on, and the thought of going back to the life that was, was terrifying and hopeless in itself.

John had helped him with his people skills, yet he still pissed most people off, only being tolerated when his blogger was with him to keep him at bay and tell him what to say and when to say it. When he felt the familiar pressure in his nose, and the wet in his eyes, he changed his train of thought. Afraid he would lose control again, he made the conscious decision to stop thinking about how lonely he would feel. But despite telling himself to drop the subject, he didn't.

He tried not to admit that he cared about John, not even to himself. But it wasn't true, in fact, it wasn't only the fear of being alone that was depressing him, but the fear of losing John. John wasn't just a person to keep him company, but John was special. John had seen the good in him even after Sherlock had deduce him. John praised his successes, he didn't shoot them down. John was his John, his first, and only friend. And now John was gone.

Not only was Sherlock once again alone, but now he had no John. And coming the acceptance that he had lost his John to Mary broke his heart. Accepting his John had moved along is what brought fresh tears to silently run down the detectives face.

_I know it's short, but this was just kind of a reminiscence thing to get me back up and at the fic, and to give you guys the chance to tell me what you think about more Mycroft :)_


	6. Chapter 6

_A fabulously huge thank you to all of my reviewers! I really, really appreciate the feedback! I'm also very glad you all voted on Mycroft, I just love him. _

_Infinitesparkles: Thank you so much! I really had a lot of fun writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. I'm very glad to be writing this again!_

_Gobletcharm74 and TheGyhran: Thanks for voting! More Mycroft it is!_

_Jipseebree: As you wish ;) It was hard to not bring William in the last chapter, but I sternly told myself it was a-Sherlock's-thoughts-only-update. _

OOOO

Sherlock rolled his eyes as a sleek black car pulled up beside him. If there was a single person he didn't want to see right now, it would be his idiot brother. He ignored the car driving slowly beside him for about a block before a door slid open invitingly. Still he walked on, ignoring it.

It was when he pulled into an alley in between stores, one a car would never fit in, that someone dressed in a suit climbed out the car and actually approached him. The man was broad in stature, but no taller than Sherlock himself. His face held freckles, and his hair was ginger.

"Mr Holmes, I have been sent under highest orders to retrieve you." The man said in montone.

Sherlock glared at the agent, "No. You can tell my brother to 'piss off'."

The agent smiled the slightest bit, "Mr Holmes has already predicted your reaction, that is why he sent me." The man fished in his pocket a moment before pulling out an ID badge. "Mr Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for suspected robbery of a tailor shop. Please come with me."

Sherlock scowled, robbery? His stupid brother couldn't even come up with a better excuse to arrest him? "Leave me alone, and tell him to piss off. You and I both know I'm under no suspicion." Sherlock growled again, he was not planning to let himself be arrested just so his pompous arse of a brother could 'talk' to him.

The man rolled his eyes. He had been briefed on Sherlock and informed to expect this reaction. Mr Holmes himself had even given him permission to use handcuffs and a taser so long as the circumstances allowed, and Sherlock was not permanently harmed. He was told to collect the

younger Holmes no matter what.

"You are under arrest. If you do not come with me now I will be forced to handcuff you." The man warned, and although he said he would be forced to, Sherlock could see he was perfectly willing to do so.

Sherlock moved his hands behind his back. "I am not under suspicion for anything, so please bloody get away from me! I am not in a mood for this." Sherlock was done with his brother and his interference's. The detective started to slowly back away, hoping to inconspicuously get enough space to turn on his heels and run.

The man shrugged and his gaze moved to Sherlock's shuffling feet a moment, and with a flying tackle, slammed the detective against the ground. With his victims wind knocked out of him, the agent rolled him over and handcuffed his wrists together.

OOOO

"So bloody dramatic." Sherlock grumbled as he sat in the back of the black vehicle, hands still cuffed.

"But efficient." The driver, also his captor, said brightly.

OOOO

"Hello, Sherlock." Mycroft greeted upon hearing his office door squeak open. He didn't even bother looking up from his paperwork he was skimming over to confirm his brothers presence. "I assume you went with Mr Hodgekin with plenty of reluctance."

Sherlock huffed at his brother, "Completely unnecessary, Mycroft."

Now Mycroft looked up, an eyebrow raising as he examined his angry, handcuffed brother standing beside his agent. He frowned to see how tired and defeated his little brother looked. "Was it? I highly doubt a phone call would have gotten you here."

Sherlock looked away, now glaring at the ground.

"Mr Hodgekin, please uncuff him and stand outside the door."

The agent complied, first uncuffing the detective, then leaving and shutting the door behind him. Sherlock stretched and rubbed his wrists a bit. He looked up at Mycroft defiantly, "What !do! you want, Mycroft. I am busy, and I hold no desire to speak with you."

Mycroft slumped his posture a bit, relaxing now that he was alone with only his brother. Sherlock was the first to break the silence, "What tailor shop did I supposedly rob?"

"I don't know, but all charges have been dropped, turns out no one ever did break in."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm leaving." He turned his back and pulled open the office door. The man, Mr Hodgkin, had been leaning against it on his phone. he tumbled backwards into Sherlock a few steps before whirling on his feet and rolling his eyes. "I expected at least ten minutes, not two."

Sherlock scowled and slammed the door, turning back to Mycroft who looked perfectly pleased with himself. "Sit?" Mycroft offered. Sherlock didn't want to satisfy his brother, but sat down nonetheless.

"Drink?" Without awaiting an answer, Mycroft poured two small glasses with alcohol.

"What is it you want, brother?" Sherlock asked bitterly, he tried to put his walls up, to remove any traces of emotion from his face, but he was too tired and overwhelmed with sentiment to do so properly, and he knew Mycroft noticed.

"I wish to apologize to you for my… uncalled for behavior earlier this day." Mycroft offered calmly.

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow, "Don't flatter yourself, Mycroft, nothing you said had the slightest bit effect on me."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Don't be stupid, Sherlock. I know when you're lying, and you're doing a worse job now than usual. If you aren't willing to accept my apology, than don't. I do not care."

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms disdainfully. "I had a moment, but I am perfectly fine now, and if you please, I have places to be."

"Like where? The nearest _drug den_?" Mycroft challenged, lifting up his chin at the last two words in disgust.

Sherlock looked away momentarily before shaking his head no. "You think you know me, how I think, but you don't. I want nothing to do with any of that. You have no place kidnapping me simply to have this tedious discussion. And if you call off your guard dog, I will be on my way." Sherlock stood up once again.

"I have full access to all CCTV screens, brother. I watched you after you rudely left the coffee shop. I !_know_!." Mycroft said simply, also standing, so he wasn't being looked down on any longer.

Sherlock took a long, deep, wavering breath, and slumped back down into the chair. No use hiding himself any longer, seeing as how Mycroft !_always_! seemed to know. Speaking of Mycroft knowing things, "How did you know? The things you said at the coffee shop."

Mycroft followed suit, once again seating himself in his chair. "After seeing the state you left 221B in, I sent an agent to follow you. You got very intoxicated," he wrinkled his nose, "And told him all."

"Sounds like a scene from some crap telly show."

"And you were the star. The sentimental bloke with a broken heart."

Sherlock silently stared at his brother for a good minute or two. "I am not broken hearted, Mycroft." His said his brothers name with emphasis.

"What ever you say, brother-dear." Sherlock scowled at the tone Mycroft spoke in, knowing it to be his 'whatever helps you sleep at night' tone. As a child he used to argue long and heavy every time his brother used that tone. Now he just ignored it the sarcastic agreements.

"You could call him." Mycroft suggested quietly, an almost cautious expression accompanying it.

"He's busy." Sherlock answered immediately afterwards.

"You could try, you don't-"

"Do shut up, brother. You trying to help is only boring me. I am perfectly fine now."

Before Mycroft could respond, there was rapid knocking on his office door. He sighed and shouted, "Come in."

Mr Hodgekin walked in and after glancing between the two brothers quickly he started speaking quickly, "Sir, Celia just called and her water broke."

Sherlock did not expect the concerned look on Mycroft's face, "Go get Anthea to find you a quick ride there. I'll also send someone to pick up your son. Now go, dismissed!" He waved his hand to signal for the man to depart.

Mr Hodgekin smiled with relief and excitement and ran out the door, shutting it behind him.

"That was... Kind?" Sherlock said with a questioning tone.

"I've known Mark Hodgekins for a long time, and he is most certainly my favourite agent of all." Mycroft explained easily, "Not to mention he has done many- less than legal -favours for me."

"Be careful, brother, you're letting your human side show." Sherlock snorted.

Mycroft bore a horrified expression, "No I am not!"

"Not human, or not letting it show?" Sherlock challenged, narrowing his eyes. He stood up sharply and folded his hands behind his back. "I really must be going."

Mycroft sighed and stood up as well. "Sherlock, you know if you are too -_bored_-" _lonely _"You can always come to my house. You know the security bypass code, I haven't changed it." The two brothers held a lingering eye contact before Sherlock sucked in a deep breath.

"I'll be fine."

"Sherlock." Mycroft tilted his head to the side a bit, not letting go of his brothers gaze. "You know this always happens. I'm shocked that you didn't see it coming."

Sherlock looked broke the eye contact and looked down at the ground with what only Mycroft would recognize to be an ashamed expression. "I- John was- is different."

"Is he though, Sherlock? That's what people do, they leave their old friends for someone _new._" Mycroft sighed and rolled his shoulders back to once again stiffen up his posture. "Just forget about him."

Sherlock knew that wouldn't be possible. He couldn't forget John. But he also knew that Mycroft usually seemed to be right about these kinds of things, leaving him conflicted.

Mycroft glanced down at his wristwatch. "Brother, could you do me a favour? Pick up Mr Hodgekins son, Billy, I think his name is? Grade four. I have people who could do it, but they're not always so trustworthy on more personnel matters such as this. Unless, of course, you aren't feeling-" He added a sneer "-!_fine_! enough to."

Sherlock scowled, he saw through the trick of his brother, but he really had no choice but to comply. "Fine. Text me the address of his school."

"And when you have him, escort him to his flat, the address of which I will also text you, and leave him to the babysitter whom I will arrange. Unles you'd like to keep him around?"

"No."

"Just a suggestion to keep you from becoming !_bored_!"

"Whatever, but I expect you to leave me alone afterwards."

Mycroft smiled slowly, tilting his down a bit, and looking up at Sherlock, "Of course, brother mine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Despite what your egotistical nature says, that really looks ridiculous." He said with annoyance.

Mycroft snorted and corrected his expression to be one more neutral, "Well you really can be on your way now, brother."

Sherlock nodded curtly before he walked briskly out the office door. When he was out of sight he relaxed his posture to a slight slouch, and let out a heavy breath. Acting so cold and indifferent for so long had taken its toll on him. His phone buzzed silently in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and opened the text from Mycroft stating an address and a six digit numeral code along with the words, 'in case you've forgotten.' He sighed and shook his head.

Sherlock kept his phone turned on as he hailed and climbed into a cab. "Address, Sir?" The cabbie asked.

Sherlock read the address off his phone and then sat back silently for the ride. He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin. Everything Mycroft had said made sense, of course it did, Mycroft always seemed to be right. But he had known John so well. He had _cared_ for John. Yet after he jumped off Barts, after those two long years, things had changed.

"We've arrived, sir." The cabbie interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. The detective opened his eyes apprehensively before pulling himself out of the cab. He cringed at distaste at the school in front of him. He hated schools.

He straightened his posture and clenched his jaw as he set through the bustling crowds of parents picking up kids in the hallways. After asking several people for directions, he found the 4th grade classroom. He wait his turn in the line of parents until he was face to face with the teacher of the class. "I'm here to collect a Billy Hodgekin, I've been sent by his father who is helping his wife (?) birth another child."

The teacher, a middle aged woman with thick blonde hair bit her lip a moment. "Well unless you have written permission you can only take Billy if he knows you." She informed him quietly.

Sherlock scowled, "Are you calling me a criminal? Of course, you'd be suspicious of that sort of thing after your husband's arrest." Her eyes widened and she nervously back away a step or two.

"I'm very sorry, but unless Billy recognises you I am not allowed to let him leave."

"Well of course he won't recognise me, I've never met the-" Sherlocks voice stopped as he saw the kid who had walked up to stand behind his teacher. His face instantly melted into one of distaste. "William." He greeted formally.

"It's okay, Ms. Woodland, I know him!" William promised his teacher who suddenly confused by the turn of events.

"Billy. A ridiculous nickname. Now if your atrocious teacher would let you leave I could give the _wonderous_ news I bear." Sherlock shot a distinctive glare at the teacher who was running fingers through her hair.

"Well, I suppose if Billy knows you, he can go…" She sounded uncertain, but Sherlock took that opportunity to grab William's forearm and drag him out of the classroom, the younger boy waving goodbye to his teacher as he ran to keep up with the detectives brisk pace.

"What're you doing here, anyways?" William asked as he yanked his arm from Sherlock's grasp.

"I was sent by my dreadful brother to retrieve and escort you. However if he'd have explained the-" Sherlock was cut off by William's interruption, "Let me rephrase that, why isn't my Dad picking me up? He's supposed to…"

"Apparently his wife is in labour. Although I thought you said your parents were divorced." The detective looked down at William suspiciously.

"They are. But Dad's dating Celia, who is stupid. She insists I call her Mum, but I wont. And she keeps saying that her kid will be my sister, but she'll only be my half sister." William explained.

"Ah, I see." Sherlock replied shortly as he waited for a cab to pass. "Surely you're at least a bit excited to have a sibling, I'm sure you'll be, er, friends or something…"

"Are you friends with your brother you mentioned?" William challenged with a grin as he climbed into the cab after Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at William and huffed sulkily. "Not fair."

William gave the cabbie his home address and nearly a minute later spoke up again. "Can we get ice cream?" William asked out of the blue.

Sherlock gave him an odd look, "Why would I buy you ice cream?"

"Why not?"

"Fine. If you earn it first." Sherlock said absently, trying to shut him up.

"How?" William asked scowling, why would he have to earn it first?

Sherlock shrugged, "That's for you to figure out. And figure it out quietly." He steepled his hands under his chin, ignoring William's disdainful huff.


End file.
